


Seven Nights, Seven Days: A Yuletide Tale

by seashadows



Series: Down the Road and Back Again [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Hobbits and Dwarves have awesome winter traditions, M/M, Modern Middle Earth, PIT WARGS, Winter Solstice, Yuletide, everyone is the same species as in canon, sequel to the Untitled Bagginshield Lawyer AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-02-19 23:24:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13134366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seashadows/pseuds/seashadows
Summary: It's tradition to spend Yuletide with your family. Bilbo Baggins sees no reason why his betrothed can't partake in his traditions, even if that betrothed is the King of Erebor. However, tossing friends, family that he has yet to meet, and enthusiastic pets into the mix may ensure that this is the most memorable holiday Thorin has ever seen (and he's spent some with Nori).





	1. 30 Foreyule

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set approximately three months after the end of Down the Road and Back Again. The title is from the Fratellis song of the same name (Seven Nights, Seven Days). 
> 
> Many thanks to [tea-blitz](tea-blitz.tumblr.com) for beta-ing! 
> 
> And Happy Holidays to all. :)

_To confirm: I’m picking you up at the exit to Terminal A._

**Yes.**

_How are you texting on a plane?_

**I’m a king. I’m also flying privately.**

_You’re a word that begins with W and rhymes with ‘canker.’_

**Shall I ask the pilot to turn around?**

_Nice try. I know full well the pilot is NOT one of your nephews._

**Right in one. I’m excited to see you, too.**

_YULE. IN. BAG. END._

**You’ve been remarkably quick to embrace the various permutations of text-speak, for someone who once swore he’d have nothing to do with modern technology.**

_Fuck off._

**I love you too.**

Bilbo couldn’t stop fidgeting. It was becoming a bit of a problem, if he could trust the ache in his buttocks. “Delays,” he groused in the general direction of his lap. It wouldn’t do to have people glaring at him for his tone. “Bloody delays.” He’d even cleaned the smial, no thanks to a certain Minto, and now Thorin’s plane had the gall to be _late_.

Sometimes it was truly difficult to be alive. 

He sighed and tipped his head against the back of the chair. Depending on how long it took Thorin’s plane to get in, he might have to go find something to eat before long. While his first three meals had gone by without incident, he’d only been able to eat a small lunch due to nerves, and the trip to pick up Thorin necessitated skipping tea. Thorin had better eat plenty of the dinner he’d spent all last night making, and that was all he had to say about that. He hadn’t even had time to make cake for his own elevenses. 

“Bilbo?” 

“Thorin!” Bilbo blurted out, and shot to his feet. There he was in the flesh, all four feet and unfair number of inches of him, dark circles under the bluest eyes Bilbo had ever seen. “You silly thing, why didn’t you let me know you’d be in?” Wait, why was he even asking such ridiculous things? He shook his head at himself and launched his body in Thorin’s direction before Thorin had the slightest opportunity to answer. 

“Bilbo,” Thorin said after a moment, voice strained, “I’m choking.” 

Oh. “Oh dear,” Bilbo said, and slunk away. “That’s me told.” Just like him to bollocks it up after Thorin had been on a plane for three hours. 

He felt as much as heard Thorin’s laugh a split second before Thorin swept him into his arms. “If you’re allowed to surprise me, I can do the same,” Thorin told him, giving him a slight squeeze. His rough wool coat smelled smoky, and his hair cocooned them both like a living blanket. Bilbo shut his eyes and resolved to enjoy every second before Thorin regained himself and let go. “I’ve missed you so much.” 

“I’m sure I’ve missed you even – don’t let go!” Bilbo protested. But Thorin proved intractable about not holding him for the rest of eternity, so Bilbo made do by putting his hands on his hips and squinting like that old Mannish film star from decades ago. John something, he thought it was, but the squinting wasn’t a good idea. It just made the already-creepy fluorescent airport lights bore into his eyes and start a headache. “Look, if you’re uncomfortable with personal contact here, could I drive us home? It’s terrible in here anyway.” 

Thorin blinked. “You drove all the way here?” 

“Well, how else was I supposed to get here? I don’t care for taxis.” Thorin’s face couldn’t have been clearer in its expression of ‘I’m not surprised.’ They’d spent three months apart, but Bilbo thought he could still flatter himself that he knew Thorin’s typical facial contortions. “Not a word. Let’s go to the parking garage, shall we? Where’s your luggage?” 

“Here.” Thorin pulled up a surprisingly small suitcase, Erebor-blue with gold trim, and patted the side of the extended handle. 

“That’s not very much.” 

Thorin cocked his head. “You did say you have a washing machine.” 

“For a king, you’re terribly practical,” Bilbo told him. He wanted to use the washer when there was plenty of room to put his lovely clothes in the smial? Knowing him, he’d probably only brought jeans and short-sleeved shirts and a ratty old jumper or two. Bilbo shook his head – humility was all well and good, but in his opinion, a king ought to have a bit of pride in his opulence. “All right, let’s get you to the nice cozy smial. You look done in.” 

Thorin agreed with a barely-perceptible tilt of his head to the side. Bilbo grabbed his hand and towed him wordlessly through the holiday chaos of Arrivals, sidestepping a very large family who seemed determined to list off every relative of theirs who wished they could make it while blocking the baggage carousels. “We’ve got about fifteen miles from here to Bag End,” he said once they’d reached his car. “Are you hungry? It’s…” He checked his watch. “It’s about an hour and a half until dinner. We could stop off and get you something to tide you over.” 

Thorin put his suitcase in the boot, then opened the passenger-side door and slid in. “I’m fine,” he said. “There was plenty of food on the plane. I think I’d rather put my things away and have a rest, if that’s all right with you.” 

“Oh, certainly.” Bilbo got in and started the engine, which sputtered for a few seconds before behaving as it should. “Home it is, then. I’ve got quite a dinner planned for us. Just to let you know, though, the scenery out on the highway isn’t nearly as lovely as what I saw in Erebor my first day.” 

Thorin chuckled deep in his throat. “It’s rather the opposite of your first day. That highway was indoor, this one is outdoor. And there’s no Nori watching us. I checked my luggage carefully before I left, and he’s not that flexible.” 

“I’d boot him out the second he came in and he knows it,” Bilbo said. “Well, I’ve got to concentrate on the road. Dreadful time of year, this. You can look out the window and watch the world go by if that suits.” 

It did; Thorin didn’t say a word. Nevertheless, a glance in the rearview mirror showed him to be interested in the surroundings, if very tired. Bilbo had been telling the truth about Hobbiton-Westfarthing Highway not being as nice as the main Erebor road, but the snow-covered clumps of houses they passed on the way were certainly picturesque. Good thing it had snowed the week previous, rather than rained. 

The Old Hobbiton exit proved blessedly empty of the various tourists and rubberneckers that were such a pain in the arse around Yuletide season, especially those who came to gawk at the “adorable” Hobbits. At least they paid double for their drink at the Green Dragon, and whichever bartender was on shift would have a good laugh with the regulars about it. “We’ll be there soon,” Bilbo told Thorin as they passed the steadily older buildings that ringed the newer Central Hobbiton on the way to Bagshot Row. “I’ve got a carport ‘round the back side of the smial. Shouldn’t be more than a minute’s walk up the path.” 

Thorin snorted, a noise that soon turned into a yawn. “I’m no stranger to stretching my legs,” he said. 

“Can you blame me for being nervous?” The car trundled up the last stretch of Bagshot Row, and Bilbo maneuvered around the side of the hill to park. “Look, this is the first time you’ve been out here since you were living out west. You knew my grandfather, for the love of the Valar.” 

“And?” 

“How is my home supposed to compare to Great Smials?” Bilbo looked in the rearview mirror, smoothed down his hair out of instinct, and got out to fetch Thorin’s luggage – which felt about as heavy as an Oliphaunt. “Oof!” He managed to yank out the suitcase and drop it on the frozen ground without too much noise. “What have you got in here? Nori?” 

Thorin grimaced, then flashed him a grin through his beard. “Don’t joke about that. I nearly had to pull him out.” He rolled his eyes. “There are presents inside. Oh, incidentally – did you get the Festival of Lights gift I sent?” 

Bilbo licked his lips. “Yes, I did, and it was tremendous.” He led Thorin, suitcase in hand, around to the front door and took out his keys. “Those coins! It took me about half an hour to figure out I was meant to eat them, not unwrap them. Thought they were just covered in foil.” 

“No, they’re gilded,” Thorin said. “They’re edible. I hope you did eat them instead of throwing them away – !” He caught his breath as the door swung open. 

Bilbo frowned and turned around with the key still in the door. “What’s wrong?” 

“It’s beautiful.” Thorin’s eyes were round, his mouth hanging open and barely moving with each word. “The rafters, and the door…all of it. You even decorated.” 

Bilbo felt his cheeks heat. “It’s not so very much,” he muttered. “Not compared to…I mean, everything you’ve seen has got to be…better.” He hated it when the age difference smacked him in the face. He was more mature than Thorin’s nephews, his elders by decades, but sometimes there was no denying the life that Thorin had lived or the experiences he’d had. 

“But it’s yours.” Thorin kissed Bilbo’s ear, which twitched involuntarily. He _hated_ when that happened, but couldn’t bring himself to care this time. “And you’re mine, and that is a pit warg.” He detached and crouched, holding out his arms for the moving ball of brown and white that, Bilbo observed with dread, was moving towards them at high enough velocity that his claws were audibly scraping the wooden floor. “This has to be Minto.” 

“Minto, sit!” Bilbo commanded. It was too late; Thorin was flat on his back with Minto atop him before the sentence had half exited his mouth. “Oh, bad Minto! You get off your ‘Adad this instant.” It was one of the few Khuzdul words he knew, and he would use it as much as he could. The warm feeling it gave his stomach to hear it was addictive. “Thorin, you don’t have to take that.” 

“I do.” Thorin pursed his lips and Minto obligingly kissed him, his tail wagging a thousand miles a minute. “Who’s a big boy?” he crooned. “Yes, you’re ‘Adad’s big Minto. You’ve grown! Yes, who’s grown? That’s you. Oh, smelly kisses on ‘Adad’s beard.” The last words were muffled by Minto’s sloppy tongue doing exactly as Thorin said it did. The pit warg had flopped on top of him him with great aplomb and, as happy as his floppy ears and wagging tail looked, he didn’t seem likely to leave of his own will anytime soon. “Minto, who’s crushing his ‘Adad’s internal organs?” Thorin asked. “Someone here is and it’s not me!” 

Bilbo sighed. “Really, he knows better. Minto, sit! Sit up!” 

“He’s a good boy.” Of course Thorin ignored him. “Yes, ‘Adad’s going to need a funeral before his holiday is out!” 

Bilbo reacted before he could stop himself. “Don’t say that!” he snapped. His hand flew to his mouth and he took a breath to steady himself. “Fuck. I’m sorry, Thorin. That just…it was an instinctive thing. Sorry.” 

Thorin nodded, or at least it looked like he did. “You don’t need to be sorry. I’m too old to be in the snow like this, at any rate. Minto, up.” Minto actually _obeyed_ him – unbelievable. He was six months old, seventy-five pounds, and an utter force of destruction, and it usually took a small act of the Valar to make him listen on the first try. But here he was, sitting prettily on his haunches with his eager tongue out and his brown eyes alight with puppy love. “Good boy,” Thorin said as he got to his feet and dusted what snow remained unmelted off his knees. “Bilbo, shall we go in?” 

“Oh. Yes.” Bilbo motioned to the door. “Just bring your things into the front hallway and we’ll go from there.” 

Thorin did as told, followed by Minto. Bilbo gestured around the entryway once the door was securely locked and the lights turned on. “Here’s Bag End,” he said, then cleared his throat. “Sorry, that was stupid, wasn’t it? Mm. Well, anyhow, this is the first room that Dad finished decorating. That’s Mum’s glory box over there, and a –“ 

“Bilbo.” Thorin took both of Bilbo’s hands in his own, much warmer than any hands had a right to be. How was that even possible? “I’m not a real-estate agent. This is _your_ home and I’m here for a week. I’ll discover every nook and cranny without the grand tour, I promise. Why don’t you show me to _our_ room?” 

“I…” 

“Not to mention,” Thorin finished with a smile, “I’ve been here before.” 

Just like that, the ice cracked, and Bilbo rolled his eyes at himself. He shouldn’t have ever worried about this. Thorin was his betrothed, and if he couldn’t be comfortable with him more than anyone else in the world, then he might as well just resign himself to dying alone with a pit warg. “Right. Follow me. I’m in the old master bedroom, where I try not to think about Mum and Dad doing unspeakable things a single wall away from me in my childhood.” 

Thorin’s laughter boomed out behind him. “That’s more like it!” 

“Enough of that!” Bilbo shot back. “Here, just dump your things anywhere. Just not in Dad’s armchair. It’s a bit fragile.” He waved his arm. “The loo’s through there, that’s the window with Minto’s nose prints all over it, and that’s the bed.” 

Giggling in a manner very unbefitting of a king, Thorin dragged his suitcase to the side of the bed and set it down. “The site of the unspeakable things, I imagine.” 

“Indeed, and I hate to think about it. The worst part is…no, actually, that’s all I’m going to say about that.” Bilbo shook his head. This was his and Thorin’s holiday, and he would _not_ have it spoiled by awkward memories of his parents. “If you’d like, we could have dinner a little early. How does that sound?” 

Thorin frowned. It took Bilbo a moment to realize that the frown wasn’t directed at him – or at Minto, who’d chosen to jump up on the bed and lie there with a contented sort of wargy noise. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bed configuration like that,” he said. “The cover isn’t tucked in.” 

“The bed?” Suddenly, Bilbo understood. “Oh, yes! The covers aren’t tucked in, is that what you’re saying?” Thorin nodded. “Yes, the Shire beds are a little unusual compared to everyone else’s. Do you see those little flat knobs holding down the edges of the blankets?” He crossed to the bed and touched one, its wood smooth and shiny after years and years of use. “The mattresses are round and so are the covers. These pegs pull out, you see.” He demonstrated. “There are slits in the sheets and cover all around, and they loop around the pegs. Everything’s circular: the mattress, the sheets, everything. I think some enterprising Hobbit invented this system years ago so we wouldn’t have to deal with how difficult it would be, trying to tuck in a _round_ bed.” 

“Really?” 

“Oh, yes,” Bilbo said, snapping his bracers and putting on his best imitation of Dad’s ‘Explaining Things to the Boring Non-Inventors’ voice, which was fun in small doses. “It’s tradition to have round mattresses. They used to be stuffed with hay in the fields and rolled down the road to their recipients. Tradition lives on, I suppose. We Hobbits have got to have everything in a circle shape.” 

Thorin sat down on the edge of the bed. “Including your bellies.” 

“Yes, and we’re very proud of them.” He sat down next to Thorin and leaned against his shoulder. “You’re freezing! Why don’t you take your coat off?” With a sinking feeling, Bilbo looked down and found his suspicions borne out – Thorin had tracked muddy water all through the front hall and into the bedroom. “Boots, too.” _Do not get angry_ , he ordered himself. Floors could be scrubbed, but a lovely visit with Thorin only came once in a…right, it had been three months. Once in a quarter-year it was, at least until he could move to Erebor. The thought made his heart twinge. 

Luckily, Thorin understood; Bilbo could see it in his eyes. “It’s all right, Bilbo,” Thorin said. “I’ve had to do much of the cleaning for my family before. I’ll set this to rights as soon as I can.” He leaned down and took off his boots off, then sinuously slid his arms out of his coat sleeves and neatly folded the coat, setting it on the floor by the foot of the bed. “Dis wants to have one of these made for you when you move back.” 

“A coat? Dis?” Bilbo repeated, rather touched. Dis was no hand-crafter, her own craft being a born genius in mathematics and the management of money, but she had fingers in every pie he knew of and whoever she commissioned was bound to be the best. “Goodness. Tell her I absolutely accept. I’ll have to get her some sort of mathom in return. Terrible of me not to have done it on my last birthday.” If his family-to-be had been Hobbits, he’d never hear the end of it. 

“Yes, a coat, Dis.” Thorin lifted his eyebrows in gently mocking amusement, then suddenly reached out and took Bilbo’s face in his hands. “Something I forgot,” he said in a husky voice, and brought their foreheads together. Bilbo’s eyes slid closed and he pressed his face in harder, luxuriating in Thorin’s warm skin and the puffs of his breath. It smelled a bit stale, but he wasn’t one to demand perfection when he woke up smelling like death in the morning. “I’ve missed you, _kurdu_.” 

Bilbo put his hands on Thorin’s hips. ‘I missed you’ seemed inadequate to describe the mornings right after he returned that he reached for Thorin and found him missing, or all the time he spent designing ridiculous hybrids of Bag End and the royal quarters to live in once he moved to Erebor. He was as bad as a faunt with his sweetheart. “We’ll have to thrash out who missed whom more than the other once we’ve settled in,” he finally said. “I love you immeasurably much, let’s just leave it at that.” He opened his eyes to try to gaze romantically into Thorin’s, but found himself thwarted by cross-eyes and closed them again. Nothing ever went right for his romantic sensibilities. “Shall we have a bit of food?” 

“What time is it?” Thorin asked. 

Bilbo looked at the bedside clock. “Actually, it’s nearly six,” he said. “I didn’t know it’d gotten that late.” _It’s dark outside,_ said the Lobelia-like voice in his head. _Maybe that should have clued you in._ “I’ve made a lot of different things for dinner, and I think you’ll like them. I had to use the second pantry because there’s so little shelf space left in the first.” 

Thorin jerked away from him. “Second pantry?” he echoed, eyes wide with what looked like horror. “I thought there was only one. We…we nearly cleaned it out that night…I offered to _pay_ your parents!” 

Bilbo bit his lip hard to keep from bursting into side-splitting laughter. “When you made them that offer,” he said slowly, “did they laugh?” 

“Er.” Thorin’s brows furrowed until it looked as though he had one giant eyebrow, a sure sign that he was thinking hard. “If I recall, they did.” 

Bilbo clapped him on the shoulder in a far more Nori-ish gesture than he would have given if he weren’t giddy. At least Nori wasn’t here to see and gloat. “You know better now,” he said, “and you will for the future. Anyhow, why don’t we go have a seat in the kitchen, and I’ll get things ready?” 

“How will you sit if you’re getting things ready?” 

This time, the shoulder clap was a slap. “Oh, you,” Bilbo scolded him. “Enough of that so-called humor. You know I mean you’ll be sitting – can’t have you doing any work whatsoever your first night here.” He turned and snapped his fingers at Minto, who appeared to have fallen asleep in the shape of a round loaf of bread, tail over his nose. “Minto! Come to the kitchen and you can have a treat!” 

Minto shot off the bed and to his feet at the word ‘treat,’ as Bilbo had known he would. “Aren’t you worried he’s going to get into the food?” said Thorin. “After what you told me about the chocolate cake, and the two sticks of butter, and the dried beef with the plastic bag, and…” 

Bilbo held up a hand. “Let me stop you there,” he said. There was no need to list the usual litany of his failures as a pet owner, namely all the times Minto had gotten into people food when Bilbo’s back was turned for half a second or less. The dried beef led to a particularly painful vet bill. “Just come with me.” 

Thorin followed him into the kitchen and sat down as directed. “No tour of the second pantry?” 

“The second pantry is for me to know and you to find out.” Bilbo rummaged in the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher. “First, a sort of mulled cider-fruit punch hybrid that I’m very proud of. It’s a Hob invention, but I think I did it justice.” He poured a glass and set the pitcher back on the table, all the better to drink himself sick later. “Now just hold on a moment.” 

The second pantry took two keys and involved a sliding wall panel that would make any Ereborean engineer proud; Bilbo tended to use it for cooked dishes that needed a cool few hours, as his parents had and as opposed to the fresh food in the first pantry. He grabbed the foil-covered platters of mince pies and roasted root vegetables, skillfully balanced them on his arms, and ducked back in to get an afterthought string of sausage before going back to the kitchen. “I’ve been working all day on this,” he said as he took down some plates. “Nothing compared to tomorrow’s Yule dinner. It’s meant to leave you rather peckish.” 

The way Thorin dug in made Bilbo rethink that a bit. “It’s incredible,” Thorin slurred between bites of mince pie – or, rather, within bites of mince pie. His manners were usually much better, Bilbo would grant him that, but right now he winced at the sight of see-food. “Is this a family recipe?” Thorin wiped his mouth. “Bombur would kill for it. I mean cold-blooded murder.” 

Bilbo shrugged. “I actually get this recipe off the packet of pie crusts.” 

Thorin looked up, fork halfway to mouth. “What?” 

Bilbo couldn’t help a peal of laughter. “Your face!” he declared. “That’s an ancient joke, Thorin. Yes, the pie recipe is real, but I buy the crusts. There are limits even for me, and shortcrust pastry is one of them.” Butter in his eyebrows, and that was all he would allow himself to think about that. 

Thorin snorted, muttered something Bilbo couldn’t make out, and pointed the fork at him. “You,” he said. “Sit. Eat. That’s an order from your king.” He stabbed a piece of roast turnip and chewed on it meditatively, then moaned. “Oh, Mahal. How can vegetables be this tasty?” 

“It’s magic.” Bilbo put some food on his plate, took a glass of punch for himself, and tucked in. “Special Hobbit magic,” he added. “There was no wizarding input into this meal. You know the grey wizard, right? Thought I’d best put in a disclaimer.” 

“Haven’t seen him for years,” Thorin said. “He was always a…how should I put it?” He looked up at the ceiling. “Enigmatic pain in my arse. That sounds about right.” 

“That’s about what Mum said,” Bilbo answered. “I wouldn’t know. The last time I saw him, I was tiny. It was at the Old Took’s best birthday, and the wizard…Gandalf! Yes, that’s him. Anyhow, he brought whizpoppers and fizzbangers and all sorts of other fireworks, and set them off all night ‘til Mum thought I’d burst an eardrum or something.” There was _something_ about that night he couldn’t remember, but he knew it had been funny. He frowned – what was it? 

“Bilbo?” Thorin prompted. 

Bilbo shook his head. “Sorry, I’m just trying to remember what happened that night. I think Mum got angry with him about all the noise, but that can’t be it. She was angry sometimes.” 

Thorin smiled. “I can’t think of anything more exciting than wizard fizzbangers. Unless you’re a Dwarf and there are swords in the equation, perhaps.” 

All of a sudden, it came back to him. “Swords!” Bilbo crowed, and slammed a hand down on the table hard enough to jangle the dishes. “You’ll laugh at this.” He took a deep breath to compose his face; wouldn’t do to give away the end by dissolving into laughter himself. “I had a wooden sword, you see.” 

Thorin polished off the last fragment of mince pie on his plate and reached for another helping. “That makes sense. You were small. Probably adorable, too.” 

“Mm. That remains to be seen, but I took my wooden sword and went over to that wizard, and I…” Valar, the memory was so clear now. It could have been yesterday, the cool early-summer air and him craning his neck to look up at the swishing grey robes above him. There was a pointed hat at the top of the robes, too, and a staff that sent out beautiful, wavery bits of white light with every movement. “Then I whacked him in the crotch with my sword until Mum dragged me away.” 

“You…” Thorin swallowed his bite, which Bilbo admired due to the fact that he burst out laughing immediately after. “You hit,” he gasped, “a wizard. With a sword. In the…” 

“Crotch,” Bilbo put in helpfully. “I did. And I don’t think he’s got anything down there, because he didn’t gasp in pain or start rolling about on the grass.” If possible, Thorin’s eyes bugged out even more. “Oh, yes,” Bilbo continued, because he was going to enjoy this, dammit, “I was quite a brave little Hobbit back in the day.” 

Thorin took a very dignified sip of punch. “I’m sure you were,” he said. His eyes sparkled. “Now you’ve grown up and you’re still just as brave, but also an excellent cook. Quite the accomplished person.” 

That deserved revenge, so although the dish still had pie in it, Bilbo reached across and stole some of Thorin’s with his fork. “Well, you deserved it,” he said sweetly at Thorin’s noise of outrage. “Do you want more dinner?” 

Thorin took a forkful of mince pie and shoved it in his mouth. “I think this will be my last helping,” he said once he’d finished chewing. “Thank you, though. I assume you were about to offer me some sort of dessert?” 

“I was, as a matter of fact,” Bilbo said. “Can you read minds?” He’d been there maybe an hour and Thorin was already reading him so well that it almost scared him. 

“Yes.” Thorin nodded solemnly. “It’s a perk of kingship. We earn it upon our coronation. I haven’t told Fili and Kili yet, though, and I trust that you won’t.” He frowned. “I don’t know why I just remembered this, but didn’t you say something about giving Minto a treat?” 

That was strange. Minto should have been trying to steal their food the whole meal, but Bilbo realized he hadn’t seen hide or hair of him since they left the bedroom. “Yes, I did,” he said. “Minto!” he called out. “Treat for Minto?” 

Claws rattled on the floor as Minto appeared in the doorway, proudly wagging his tail, something white dangling from his mouth. He dropped the thing at Bilbo’s feet, and sickeningly, Bilbo realized what it was. “Minto!” he shouted, snatching away Minto’s trophy. “That’s one of my best bulbs!” 

“How can you tell a best bulb from a non-best one?” Thorin asked dryly. 

“I just can.” Bilbo shook the dirt-encrusted bulb in Minto’s face. “Bad pup! This was meant to grow next year! Ugh, now I’ve got to replant it.” He wouldn’t have a flower next year if the temperature outside had already gotten to it. “I’m going to nail that warg door shut!” 

“I might share some of the blame,” Thorin said, which made Bilbo feel like he was a bomb that had just been defused. Damn that ability to catch him off-guard when he was working up to a good rant. “I distracted you from Minto. He might have come for his treat if I hadn’t. Does he get the treat now?” 

Bilbo gave the bulb one more good shake in Minto’s direction. “No. No treat for Minto. Maybe tomorrow if he’s a good boy.”

Thorin yawned, though he tried to hide it behind his hand. His attempts to be polite here were really quite cute, and utterly transparent. “Poor Minto,” he said. “Dessert, then?” 

There was a chocolate cake in the refrigerator, but more important things were at stake now, namely doing something to get rid of the circles under Thorin’s eyes. “Dessert or bed?” Bilbo asked. “I think I know which one your body is craving more at this point.” 

“Mm.” Thorin blinked. “It’s only…what, seven?” 

“Not even,” Bilbo said with a glance at the microwave display. “You could lie down. It’s not a crime to want to go to bed early.” 

“I’m not that old. Come here, Minto.” Thorin hunched over in his seat and held his hand out to the side, which immediately brought Minto running over to lick it. “Dessert sounds tasty. I could do with a shower afterwards, though.” 

“That sounds reasonable,” Bilbo said, and got up to clear the dishes. He could do with some cake himself, albeit perhaps a bit less than usual. It was un-Hobbitlike, but right before Yule, everyone tightened their belts a bit to have more room for the next day’s gorge (and how was it Yule already?). 

Minto begged more than enough to make up for lost time when the cake came out. He even managed to steal a single lick’s worth of frosting off Thorin’s plate; he’d clearly identified Thorin as the softy of the two in the house. Bilbo, however, was not going to stand for it. “Minto!” he shouted at a very self-satisfied pit warg, who sat there licking chocolate frosting off his sizable chops. “Bad Minto! Keep that up and you won’t have any Yule turkey tomorrow.” 

Thorin yawned again. “Don’t be too harsh on him. He’s much less of a nuisance than my nephews.” 

Still possessed of his sense of humor or not, Thorin was yawning, and that was enough of a signal for Bilbo, thank you very much. He wouldn’t have anyone accuse him of being an inattentive fiancé, even the critical voice in his head. “That’s dessert for both of us,” he said, picking up both of their empty plates and dumping them in the sink. “You’ll have a good long bath and then go right to bed. I’ve got a toothbrush in case you didn’t bring yours.” 

“Bilbo.” Thorin took his hand and kissed it, his beard scratching the skin. “I’ll be happy no matter what you do.” 

Bilbo felt himself heat up all the way down to the tips of his toes. Not to be outdone, he took Thorin’s hand and kissed it right back. “What I’ve got to do right now is feed Minto or he’ll be at my face all night,” he said. “Then I’ll show you the bath. The tub’s lovely.” 

“I’m sure it is,” said Thorin, settling more deeply into his chair with yet another yawn. “Do you want me to help?” 

Bilbo shook his head. “It’s dry food for him this time of night.” He dragged the bag of warg chow, as Nori called it, out from under the sink. “I’ll be done in a minute and then we can go.” 

As much as he would have loved to observe Thorin in the bath, and possibly help him wash, Bilbo left him to his own devices in favor of reading the last Potrion. He’d let that fall shamefully to the wayside once he came back to the Shire and his list of clients once again became first on his to-do list. Deathly Hallows were much more interesting than an angry Carl Clayhanger, no matter how red the latter’s face could turn. 

“Just a moment and I’ll turn off the light,” he said without looking up when he both heard and felt Thorin stumble into bed. But what he saw when he finally tore his eyes away from the book made him smile: Thorin was already passed out cold. 

Perhaps it was time for him to do the same.


	2. 1 Yule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dashing through the snow, with a pit warg in the lead - 
> 
> Or, Bilbo and Thorin have their first Yule Day in the Shire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [tea-blitz](tea-blitz.tumblr.com) for the beta! :)

Thorin woke up to a horrible ringing in his ears that made him roll over to get away from the noise. Fíli and Kíli…no, he wasn’t in Erebor. He was in Bag End, and that meant he had a certain someone to help. “Bilbo?” he rasped. Mahal, his voice was hoarse. “What’s that?”

“Phone,” Bilbo whined in a tone just as perturbed. “Hold on, I’ll get it.” The mattress shifted with his moving weight and, a second later, the aural torture ended. “Hello?” He paused. “Oh, Hob! It’s good to hear from you. Happy Yuletide.”

“What does Hob want?” Thorin asked, finally forcing his eyes open. When his vision focused, he saw Bilbo standing stark naked in the lamplight, talking into a black phone receiver that was old-fashioned even by Thorin’s standards. The yellowish bulb gilded his skin into something very lovely indeed.

Bilbo flapped a hand at him. _Later_ , he mouthed, and went back to the conversation with Hob. “Sorry, that was Thorin. We’re just waking up. No, no, you didn’t wake us at all.” Blatant lies, but it was amusing to watch Bilbo finger the phone cord, an obvious tic if there ever was one. “Oh, really?” Bilbo’s eyebrows went up and his mouth formed an O, but he quickly recovered himself and shook his head. “Are you sure, Hob? We were planning to have that here. Mm-hm. No, I couldn’t take your food.”

Thorin waved his hand to get Bilbo’s attention, pointed to the phone, and asked “Yule?” with an exaggerated gesture that he wasn’t sure correlated to anything that existed. He was so _tired_ , by Mahal’s stones.

Bilbo drew a finger in a slashing motion over his throat with a momentarily murderous expression that Thorin took to mean ‘don’t bother me.’ “Yes, we’ll be there,” he said. “What time? That sounds good…oh, shall I bring Minto?” He twisted his fingers in the cord. “All right. We’ll bring over some food as well. I’ll see you then.” He hung up, stretched, and then rounded on Thorin. “I was on the phone!”

Thorin blinked at the intensity. “You’re cheerful this morning.”

With a sigh, Bilbo slipped back into bed and laid his head on Thorin’s shoulder. “Well, pardon me ever so much for being distracted,” he said. “Hob wants us to come for the all-day Yule meal. I told him we would.”

“Yes, I heard,” Thorin said, which earned him another dirty look. “We’ll bring Minto and food, apparently. Were you planning a large Yule day yourself?” Bilbo had mentioned something over dessert about relative pre-Yule abstinence – in terms of food, at least.

Bilbo shook his head and wrapped himself tighter around Thorin, which ended up with his weight pleasantly squashing Thorin’s internal organs. It was much less terrible than when the boys woke him in their youth by jumping up and down on his bladder, anyhow. “The traditional Yule goose, a few extra-large meals, something quiet and intimate,” he said. “If you’d prefer to do that than spend all day at the Gamgees’, I _can_ call back.”

“It’s all right,” Thorin said, rubbing his palms up and down the soft skin of Bilbo’s back. “I don’t mind spending the day with children. It’s been a while since I’ve had a Yule supper with little ones.” In Erebor, and among Dwarves in general, it was more traditional to make more of _Amrâgu-lukhûd_ than Yule because it was a gift from Mahal, but it was hardly offensive to celebrate the Solstice with the rest of Arda, too.

“Oh, no, you misunderstand,” Bilbo said, his smile turning wicked. “I said we’re staying all day. We’ll be eating most of that time. Hob said to come over around second breakfast at nine, and I doubt we’ll be leaving any time before dinner.”

And here he’d thought Dwarvish feasts were excessive. “That can’t be possible,” Thorin said slowly. “How is it even possible by the laws of physics? I know Hobbits can eat a lot, but where do you _put_ all the Yule food?”

Bilbo shrugged, his shoulders moving against Thorin’s. “I couldn’t really say,” he replied. “You haven’t got to eat the whole day if you don’t want to. We’ll be sitting around with pipes some of the time, no doubt. And you can always have a nap.”

“I can,” Thorin agreed. “All right. What time is it now?” This was his holiday, and if he wanted to be much too lazy to turn his head and check the bedside clock, then he would.

Bilbo moved a little, pressing his hip into Thorin’s spleen and making him grunt. This position had its disadvantages. “Nearly seven,” he said. “The sun will rise soon. It’s later than it usually rises in Erebor, isn’t it? I’ve researched a little about what it’s like in the mountains this time of year.”

“I’ll tell you when you roll over,” Thorin said. When Bilbo complied with a grumble and he had full use of his lungs back, he continued, “The sun rises around six in Erebor and sets…four-thirty around Solstice, I think. Maybe earlier. I’m usually trapped inside at that point, so I can’t confirm fully. We’ll have a walk outdoors the winter after you move in, and we can see for sure.”

“All right,” said Bilbo, kissing Thorin’s neck. Thorin shivered and closed his eyes. “That sounds like a good time.” He paused for another kiss. “Do you want to have morning sex?”

Thorin choked on a startled laugh. “You’re typically more circumspect than that.” Bilbo liked to use his silver tongue to go around in obfuscating circles when he wanted phone sex. Thorin always thought it was yet another frustrating manifestation of his barrister skills. Either that or he liked to show off, possibly both.

“Circumspect, he says,” Bilbo scoffed. “I’m seeing you for the first time in three months. Haven’t I earned the right to ask you that sort of thing? Or are you saying no?” He stroked his hand down Thorin’s naked side. “Whichever way is perfectly all right.”

“We’re adults,” said Thorin, rolling his hips. The requisite parts had begun to wake up the second Bilbo made his suggestion. “Just keep in mind that I’ve got very bad morning breath.”

Bilbo made a face. “You certainly know how to kill the mood.”

“Yes, and?” Thorin said. “If you propose sex, then you can deal with the consequences of sex. Morning breath is just one of them.”

Bilbo pressed his hips against Thorin’s; it seemed he was lying about Thorin having killed the mood. In Thorin’s experience, erections rarely lied. “I don’t mind the consequences,” he said in what was probably meant to be a seductive tone. “Do you mind having a shower together after? We can have a bit of first breakfast and then head to the Gamgees’. I’ve got to load up the wagon with food for Minto to tow there.”

“So that’s why Minto’s going,” said Thorin. “He’s a dray horse.”

Bilbo lightly slapped his side. “Shush, you. Minto loves it. He lets the Gamgee kids ride him all the time.”

“Has he ever dumped any of them?”

“Not once.” Bilbo tickled him this time, and Thorin jerked in place. “That’s a ticklish spot, is it? Good thing we’ve got a week for me to find all your spots. I look forward to it.”

Thorin smiled. “Not quite a week, but do carry on.”

They found a good many spots, aided – as Bilbo gasped out at a certain point in time – by the fact that Thorin’s hands were ‘bloody enormous.’ By the time it was all said and done, Thorin suspected he’d grown a good deal smellier, and he didn’t particularly care. “Ticklish enough for you?” he asked, squeezing Bilbo’s hand.

Bilbo showed him what he’d once called his ‘important finger.’ Both of them, in fact. “Yes, quite,” he said breathlessly. “Into the shower with you. We have…” He paused to check the clock. “Bloody hell, we only have forty-five minutes. You first, me second? Your hair takes longer, and I can rush.”

“All right,” Thorin said, standing up. A slap on his arse made him turn around and rub the stinging body part in question while he stared hard at Bilbo. “Really? How old are you?”

“Old enough to be possessive.” Bilbo wiggled his fingers. “I’ll lay out my outfit while you clean up.”

Thorin did as he was told. The bathroom proved to be nearly as large as the King’s Bath in Erebor (with capital letters, if you asked Dori after the one time he’d had permission to use it when Nori clogged his piping) and paved with flat, irregular pieces of slate that created pleasing gray accents. The shower walls were a pretty, off-white tile, and Thorin hoped they would adequately absorb the sound of him singing while he washed.

Bilbo also had approximately two thousand hair- and body-care products precariously lined up on the shower shelves. Thorin rolled his eyes, but finally chose a honey shampoo and a strawberry conditioner before stepping in. “Why would you change hair products if your hair stays the same?” he asked the shower walls, which predictably had no answer, and launched into his go-to song:

_The Solstice is cold_  
and as dark as a tomb  
and ‘Amad says I’ll only freeze if I go out 

__

My ‘Adad stepped off  
for a piss and some ale  
and froze with his trews down in all of the snow out! 

A rinse and some body wash later, he stepped back into the bedroom to find Bilbo staring at him. “Do you lot usually sing such vulgar songs at Solstice time?” he asked.

“Hm?” said Thorin, and belatedly remembered that he’d gone through the next three verses, with each one getting bawdier as more people froze until a mysterious wizard blasted them apart. That was how it ended in Westron, at least. The Khuzdul version was…interesting. “No more vulgar than Hobbit songs, no doubt,” he said, recovering himself. “Especially when you lot drink.”

“Hmph!” Bilbo said, stuck his nose up in obviously fake indignation, and marched into the bathroom for his shower with his hands on his hips. Thorin shook his head and went for his suitcase. Such drama; it could rival his nephews when they wanted to annoy him.

He chose the nicest of the several outfits he’d brought, not that any of them was particularly fancy: a button-down shirt in striped white and green and brown corduroy trousers, with the shirt buttons made of finely-worked brass. It was also the most Hobbitish of the outfits, which might do well to put the Gamgees at ease, having a king in their home.

Bilbo came out bustling and wet, briskly toweling off, as Thorin was pulling his socks on. “Oh, good, you’re finished,” he muttered into his towel. “I’m going for a jumper myself. Terribly cold out. Did you look out the window? It’s snowed again!”

“No,” Thorin said. “I wasn’t aware you could see out that window.”

Bilbo nodded, a jumper from his dresser halfway over his head. “You can if you stand on the toilet,” he said. “Dad put it there for privacy. Anyway, it’s snowed terribly and I’m going to go put Minto’s booties on so he doesn’t get ice balls between his toes.” He executed the most impressive maneuver of jumping into his trousers that Thorin had ever seen, including during the Wandering Times, and snapped on a pair of unnecessary green bracers. Maybe he was going for the festive look, Thorin concluded. “You can just wait by the front door if you want. Ooh, or bring me Minto’s wagon – it’s by the umbrella stand. I’ve got to put the Yule food on.”

“Just wait and miss out on seeing this famous second pantry?” Thorin said with a laugh. “No, I’m coming with you. I’ll help carry anything that Minto doesn’t want to haul about. And slow down – I don’t think they’ll care very much if we’re late.”

Bilbo sighed, some of his wound-up energy uncoiling as Thorin watched. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “They’ve got ten children. They know what lateness is. Onward to food!”

In the second pantry, Thorin could only gape while Bilbo unloaded an entire hock of smoked ham onto Minto’s red metal wagon, following it up with several pies, a bowl of something that he hurriedly explained to Thorin was sweet potato mash, and various odds and ends that he stuffed in the corners until the wagon was as tightly-packed as a jigsaw puzzle. “The Gamgees can have the leftovers if there are any,” he said. “This is nothing for me to make again. For goodness’ sake, I bought the ham.”

Thorin shrugged. “I didn’t say anything. No need to work yourself into a froth.” Then something occurred to him. “Are you going to feed Minto?”

Bilbo paused in the middle of shoving a final dry sausage into the wagon. “No,” he finally said. “He can eat what we have at the Gamgees’. It’s a treat for the holiday.”

“Fair enough,” Thorin said, eyeing Bilbo’s bare feet. “Please don’t tell me you lot go about with no shoes when it’s as snowy as this. Not when even Minto’s wearing shoes.”

“Oh! Booties. That reminds me,” Bilbo said, smacking himself in the forehead. “Right. Let’s go get this into the front hall and bundle up. And no,” he threw over his shoulder as he pulled the wagon out the pantry door, “I’m not going barefoot, silly thing. We’ve got nice wooden clogs for things like this.”

Thorin hardly thought that _clogs_ compared to the sturdy boots he pulled on in the front hall, with their fur lining and stout steel toe-caps, but he kept his mouth shut. Bilbo was agitated enough without an insult to Hobbitish customs making it worse. Thorin had learned that the hard way over the last few months.

Finally, Minto was kitted out in his booties and the red wagon, the latter of which was attached to his collar by a complicated-looking rope harness that spanned his broad back. He put out his tongue and panted happily, and Thorin obliged him with a pat between his velvety ears. “Are we going to go?” he asked Bilbo. “I’m sure you’re ready to eat.”

“Eat – oh, _bungholes_ and botheration,” Bilbo said, “we haven’t had first breakfast. Oh, well.” He shrugged. “I suppose there’ll be plenty to eat at the Gamgees’. Yes, we’re going.” But when he opened the door, his stride turned into an irritated stamp of his left foot. “ _No!_ ” He pointed to the snow that had fallen into the entryway. “Look, it snowed overnight!”

“Shall I carry you?” Thorin suggested. “If you can’t handle the snow, that is.”

“The Gamgees are right down the lane,” Bilbo said, unable to mask his grouchy tone in affected mock-offense. Thorin knew the real thing was much less ostentatious. “I can certainly make it from here.”

Minto seemed to love the snow far more than his dad did. He bounded through the drifts ahead of them, and it was only by the grace of the Valar (in Thorin’s opinion) that he didn’t leap high enough to overturn his wagon completely. As it was, he looked adorable, like one of those enormous mountain dogs that brought casks of ale to stranded travelers. All he needed to complete the picturesque image was a red scarf; the snow was already there for the photographing.

The Gamgees’ home was no less pretty, to put it in one word. Number Three Bagshot Row, as proclaimed by the painted number on the mailbox, appeared no smaller than the much larger Bag End. Thorin could only assume that it was because this smial stuck farther out of its small hill than did Bilbo’s home. A Hobbit with graying hair, clad in clogs and a quilted jacket over incongruously short breeches for the season, stood smoking against the front. “Oi!” he called, waving frantically. “Mister Bilbo and Mister Thorin, there you are! Lovely to see you.” He snuffed out his pipe and trotted to the gate, which he opened just in time for Minto to come flying through. “Oh, you’ve brought the pup. Hullo, pup.” He scratched Minto’s under-chin and earned himself a happy howl for his effort. “Has pup brought us food? Ooh, he has. Good boy, bringing us a Yule present.”

“Minto’s bringing along my Yule gift,” Bilbo said as he guided Thorin through the gate. “And for the thousandth time, Hob, it’s just plain Bilbo. You can use Thorin’s first name, I’m sure. He’s hardly formal at all.”

“My stars, I couldn’t!” Hob’s mouth opened in a horrified ‘o.’ “Certainly not. Couldn’t be informal like that with a king.”

“Hob…Mr. Gamgee?” Thorin tried, and Hob shook his head. “Hob, then. Please call me Thorin. Bilbo has undoubtedly told you that I’ve been known to go about the kingdom in my sleeping sweats.”

Hob squinted at him and took a drag on his empty pipe, spluttering when the burnt pipeweed flew out. “That’s my fault, that is,” he muttered, and emptied the pipe into the snow before turning his attention back to Thorin. “Well, if you’re sure I’ll not get a royal injunction or nothin’,’ he said, shrugged in a Hobbitish way that Thorin had become eminently familiar with since April, and turned. “Might as well come in. Second breakfast’s out on the table and Begonia’s raring to meet you.”

Thorin ducked his head, smiled, and followed Bilbo through the indicated round red door. Minto trailed behind him, wagging his tail so hard that Thorin could hear it bang against the doorframe.

Inside, all was chaos.

Bilbo had told him that the Gamgees had ten children, but there was a vast difference between hearing the number and seeing it borne out. A scream that sounded like someone being ripped apart tore at Thorin’s ears; he traced it to the child chasing a giggling sibling around with a wooden knife. Beside the hearth, another little Hobbit sat with a tied piece of string, making string figures, and three older ones were crammed into the flowered sofa nearby. _Fíli and Kíli on steroids_ , he thought in awe. “Bilbo?”

“Yes,” Bilbo said faintly, “before you ask, it _is_ always like this.”

A female Hobbit with a head of brown curls, who could only be Mrs. Gamgee, popped her head out of an entrance to what was clearly the kitchen. “Oh, hello!” she shouted over a roar that Thorin recognized as an old oven going for all it was worth. “You must be that Thorin fellow. Come on in! We’ve got some second breakfast on the table in here and there’ll be more in the dining room soon.”

“Actually, Begonia, we’ve not had first breakfast yet,” Bilbo called back. “I know, I know, I’m a terrible Hobbit.”

She stepped through the doorway, wiping her hands on the apron covering most of her lower half. “That’s awful!” she said, and gave Bilbo a pat on the back. “Go on with you and eat before you waste clean away! You, too.” She jerked a thumb at Thorin and flashed him a grin. “Thin lad like you, you’ll crumble away to nothin’ at a strong wind.”

“I’ve been trying to feed him up!” Bilbo protested. “It’s just not working.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m larger than I was in my younger years,” Thorin said, giving in to the urge to put a protective arm around Bilbo. There was absolutely nothing wrong with his cooking, or with the way he very valiantly tried to get food down Thorin’s gullet. Which he’d referred to with those exact words back in Erebor.

“Kitchen,” said Begonia. “Now.”

Thorin wasn’t about to object. He ducked into the steamy kitchen and found a round table laid with breakfast food, including a plate of shiny fish filets with the skin still on. It wasn’t the smoked salmon he was used to in Erebor, but he would take it. Picking up a plate from the stack next to the food, he filled up with everything from fish to scones and steeled himself to go back into the Den of Children.

There was a vacant armchair close to the fire. Thorin perched his plate on his knees and watched Bilbo go into the kitchen, leaving him alone with innumerable (all right, ten or fewer, but they seemed innumerable) small Hobbits and their boundless energy. Plus Minto, he amended upon seeing two of the children on his back. He speared a piece of fish with his fork and grinned when the bite he’d chosen fell away from the rest of the flesh without the aid of his knife. Tender – that was a good start.

“Old Roper,” someone said, midway through Thorin’s systematic emptying of his plate.

“Hm?” He looked up mid-bite and found the smallest of the Hobbits in front of him, a cat held up by the armpits in their grasp. “What’s this?” Hobbits dressed their children by sex, he knew, but this one was wearing green overalls with embroidered holly berries on them, so there was no telling.

The child brandished the cat more insistently in front of him. “Old _Roper_.”

“Oh,” said Thorin. He put his plate down on the nearest end table and smiled. “Is that your name, or your cat’s?”

The child nodded solemnly. “Yes.”

Thorin leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “Could I have your name?”

“Poppy.” It came out in a conspiratorial whisper, with a flash of crooked front teeth. A female child, then. Hobbit lasses were the ones who got flower names, going by what Bilbo said. Not that it mattered; a child was a child, as the sturdy and probably easy-wash overalls pointed to.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Poppy,” Thorin said. “And that’s Old Roper, I take it?” The cat really was rather nice-looking. It was mostly white, with intermittent brown tabby patches and a solid brown tail that hung twitching almost to the floor. “Hello, Old Roper. You’re a pretty cat.”

“Old Roper,” Poppy repeated, and clambered up into Thorin’s lap with the cat in tow. He hastily lifted his plate to avoid spilling it all over, but found when he put it back down that it was right in Old Roper’s range of motion. “Old Roper wanna fish,” Poppy said.

Thorin tried to cover a snort. “I see that,” he said, and picked up his plate again when Old Roper swung a paw at it. Yet another one of the children ran over his feet, and as he snatched them back, he saw Old Roper seize the opportunity out of the corner of his eye. “Old Roper!” he said, but it was too late. The cat had already stolen one of his fish pieces. “Shite.”

“That’s a bad word!” said the child with the sword.

Thorin sighed. “I know. Your cat stole my breakfast.”

“Second bekfust,” Poppy said.

“Second breakfast, yes,” Bilbo echoed from across the room, where it seemed he’d displaced two of the children squashed into the couch. “Thorin, you might as well just let Old Roper do what he wants. I think it’s for the be – Andwise! Do _not_ climb the curtains!”

The blond child he’d chastised frowned and slid down, much to Thorin’s relief, before the curtain rod strained any more. “Aww,” he whined. “Mummy, can’t I climb the curtains?”

“No,” Begonia replied with a tone that implied she’d seen this enough to be bored of it. “Come here, Andwise.” She went to the window and adroitly scooped the lad up, putting him under one arm and towing him towards the kitchen. “Stop eating Thorin’s food, Old Roper. Here!” She snapped her fingers, and Old Roper jumped off Thorin’s lap to follow.

Poppy soon left Thorin’s lap as well, joining some of her siblings in a complicated clapping game that left Thorin free to eat. The scones were made with refined flour, not the oats or spelt more common in Erebor, and he found the change pleasant – soporific, too. He watched Bilbo get up for a second and then a third plate, but his own scant servings left him intermittently dozing in the armchair.

He opened his eyes after one of the dozes to find Bilbo poking him in the chest. “It’s time for elevenses.”

 _More_ food? Thorin groaned softly and felt his stomach. “I think I’ve eaten enough to keep me full for a few more hours,” he replied.

“Seriously?”

“Yes, and stop rolling your eyes at me.” Thorin reached forward, heavy-limbed, and poked Bilbo’s neck. “See how it feels?” He yawned. “Try me again at luncheon.”

“More food for me,” said a passing child.

Bilbo rolled his eyes again, despite Thorin’s admonishment, but left him alone. Thorin closed his eyes and let himself float off into the blissful haziness he’d once mocked in old Dwarves. Well, the joke was on him now.

A soft weight on his thighs indicated some time later that Old Roper had jumped back into his lap, but lacking food to keep away from him, Thorin just put a hand on his soft head and petted him until a purr followed by a sudden lack of purr indicated that Old Roper was sleeping, too.

“LUNCHTIME!” a child screamed right next to his ear.

Thorin sat bolt upright and gasped as his hand connected with the end table. Old Roper yowled and jumped off him; however, by the sharp pain in Thorin’s left thigh, he knew he’d have claw marks later. “Lunch?” His voice came out hoarse and phlegmy. “Do you want me there?”

“’Course,” said the child, tossing their curls. “Dad made a roast. I’m Hamfrey.” He held out his hand, and Thorin dazedly shook it, then stood up. He might as well get some more food down him.

“Thank you, Hamfrey,” he said, and followed the ripple of people through the kitchen to the dining room. “Wait, what about Minto? Aren’t you worried he’s about to steal food?”

“Thought of that,” Hob said. “Minto!” He whistled, and incredibly, Minto bounded over to him, tail in the air. “Here’s a good meaty bone for Minto.” He opened the refrigerator and pulled out Minto’s prize. Thorin had to admit that if he were a dog, he’d be tempted.

Bilbo stopped beside him and smiled. “Oh, thank you, Hob,” he said. “I don’t want him making any trouble for – bloody hell, that’s a whole femur.”

Hob beamed. “Got it off the butcher! Nice, isn’t it?” Minto grabbed the bone out of his hand, _boof_ ed, and settled down on the floor to gnaw. “That’ll keep him goin’ at least two hours, even with those teeth of his.”

Bilbo only continued to gape. “Is that from a cow or a bleeding Elvish _elk?_ Thorin, hush!” he said sharply when Thorin started sniggering. He couldn’t help it – Thranduil’s mount was just as snobbish as he was, and the thought of its reaction to Minto’s treat tickled him. 

“Don’t know,” said Hob, “don’t care. It’ll keep him from goin’ after our roast.”

The roast turned out to be a fine large turkey rather than beef, with crispy brown skin that made Thorin’s stomach growl. All right, maybe he was hungry after all. He sat down at the table when it became clear that everyone else was doing the same, and accepted the plate that Hob handed him. From his seat, he saw how homey the room was for all that it was small; it looked more lived-in than Bag End, at least. A glass-fronted cupboard full of porcelain ware took up most of the far wall – oak, unless he missed his guess – and pink flowers spotted the wallpaper. “This is a beautiful room,” he said as Bilbo, seated next to him, gave him the roast pan.

“Thanks,” Begonia answered with a smile. “Took us forever and a day to get all the decorating done. These ten kept drawin’ on the wallpaper – Hammy,” she said, snapping her gaze over in the direction of the oldest Gamgee offspring, “don’t take all those ‘taters. Everyone else here wants some, too.”

Hamfast, a great galumphing lad in his very late tweens who Thorin thought would probably be taller than him if he were a Dwarf, mumbled something incomprehensible and passed the serving plate to one of his sisters. “Sorry, Mam,” he said. Thorin thought he remembered something about an engagement; this was probably Hamfast’s last Yuletide without a wife, then.

“It’s fine,” Begonia said, deftly taking a serving spoon from Poppy’s inquisitive grip. “No, dearie. That’s not for little ones like you. Let Mam get you those green beans.”

“Not little!” Poppy protested. “ _Big_.”

“Oh, you’re big! In that case, you don’t mind explaining why you’re feedin’ Old Roper under the table.”

Poppy pouted as Thorin tried to hide a smile. He heard Bilbo snicker next to him. “Daddy do first,” Poppy said. “Feed Old Roper.”

Now it was Hob’s turn to wince under the force of a look that Thorin thought would make Dís proud. He needed to bring her to the Shire, or maybe bring the Gamgees out to Erebor, so that they could meet. “Just a bit,” Hob said.

“I have a question,” Thorin interjected before things could get too heated. “Why is he called Old Roper?”

“’S’cause he does stinky ropes in the loo box,” said one of the girls. Thorin thought her name might be Sunflower, and she had the bright yellow hair to match. “And it was Dad’s nickname. Our family did ropes before we moved here.”

“ _Sunflower!_ ” Hob and Begonia shouted together. “That’s not appropriate for the luncheon table,” Hob continued, and looked at Thorin in horror. “So sorry, Thorin. We try to train them so they’ve got better manners around guests. Goodness.”

Thorin snorted, and pinched his nose so he wouldn’t go into a full-on fit of laughter like the various kids around the table, and completely forgo royal dignity. He had to maintain _some_ image or Balin would have him disemboweled and make it look like an accident. Sometimes he found himself underestimating just how much power that fellow had. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’ve heard worse. My sister has two grown sons and I helped raise them.”

“They’re terrors when they have a mind to it,” Bilbo added, raising his voice over the sound of children’s laughter. “Not that that’s Thorin’s fault, of course. He did his best, but sometimes a lad is a lad. You know, even if he’s a prince.”

“That’s all right, then. _Poppy!_ ” Begonia shouted. “What did I tell you about feeding that cat? He’s gone and clawed all up my leg.”

“Old Roper’s hungry,” said Poppy, put on a sulky face, and crossed her arms. “Poor Old Roper,” she added petulantly.

“Poor Old Roper,” half the children replied, soon joined by all their siblings, until it seemed the whole table was nothing but a round robin of “Poor Old Roper”s and groaning adults.

Thorin blinked and leaned over to Bilbo. “What on Arda are they doing?”

“Don’t question it,” Bilbo whispered back. “Poor Old Roper!”

As if summoned – which he probably had been – Old Roper hopped up on the table, trotted to the center, and began to lick his belly. Thorin could hear how loudly he was purring even from the far end. “Poor Old Roper,” he offered.

Hob whimpered and put his head in his hands. “Oh, no,” he said. “Begonia, they’re bein’ culty again, and they’ve dragged a king into it!”

Now Thorin couldn’t suppress his laughter. _Culty_. He put his head down on the table, still careful of where his plate was, and laughed until he could hardly breathe. Bugger dignity. “The greater good,” he said, though it came out as more of a gasp.

“The greater good,” said one of the children, and soon, just as Thorin had hoped, one phrase replaced the other.

Bilbo flicked him behind his ear. “Thorin! Stop quoting Hot Fuzz this instant.”

“I’m only helping them be a bit more culty,” he said into the tablecloth. “It’s for their good.”

“The greater good,” said Poppy.

Bilbo sighed. “No. _No_.” Thorin lifted his head in time to see Bilbo shake a disapproving finger at him. “We’re going to act like adults here, Thorin. I insist on it.”

“Bit hard to do when there’s ten kids…oh, all right,” Hob amended, “nine and Hamfast. If you’re gettin’ married, you’re an adult.” He held up a hand and stage-whispered, “Had that tantrum a few times around here.”

Bilbo cleared his throat, intertwined and flexed his fingers, and went back to the business of shoving food in his mouth. Thorin joined him; it was, in his experience, the best way to get children back to normal. Anyhow, there were Bilbo’s mashed sweet potatoes and scalloped potatoes both, and he was eager to see how they stacked up against each other. Not, of course, that he’d ever let on to Hob and Begonia if Bilbo’s food turned out to be better than theirs.

“Now look, Hob,” Bilbo said after some minutes of companionable eating, “I’ve got a proposition for you.”

Hob looked up from his lunch. “Oh?”

Bilbo cleared his throat and straightened up, rather self-importantly, in his seat. “I’m rather glad you asked me to Yule today, because I’ve been meaning to ask _you_ if you’ll take care of Bag End for me once I leave.”

“That wasn’t ever going to be a problem,” said Begonia, wiping orange sweet potato residue off Poppy’s mouth.

Bilbo paused, then shook his head. “No, sorry, I misspoke,” he said. “What I mean is, will you take Bag End from me when I leave? Legally. As in the smial, the lands, and the incoming rents will be yours in perpetuity.” He took a punctuating bite of the green vegetable mash that Thorin hadn’t quite had the courage to touch. “You, your heirs, your family forever and ever and so forth.”

Hob and Begonia’s jaws dropped. “I…I…” Hob sputtered. “Mr. _Bilbo!_ ”

“Just Bilbo, Hob,” Bilbo said; quite frankly, Thorin thought that this probably wasn’t the time. “It would open up this smial quite nicely for Hamfast to move in after he’s married, wouldn’t you say?”

Thorin winced. “Bilbo, don’t plan out people’s lives.” He and the lads had all enjoyed the lecture Bilbo gave them back in Erebor on how an heir to the throne should behave, but this was rather different.

“N-no, I,” said Begonia. “Oh, Bilbo!” She leapt up from her seat with a clatter of crockery and flatware and ran to Bilbo’s seat, hugging him around the head and neck with the considerable force of her bosom. “If Hobby’s not got the words to say it yet, I’ll accept on all our behalf.”

Hob recovered his voice with an audible snapping gulp. “Oh, no, Hob’s got the words!” he insisted. “And I say yes, too. Are you sure about it?”

Bilbo nodded vigorously, the effect of which was somewhat dampened (to Thorin’s eyes) by his head’s position between Begonia’s breasts. “Quite sure,” he said. “Begonia, would you mind – yes, thank you.” He took a few deep, and obviously much-needed, breaths before continuing. “Look, Bag End’s not a family property, but that won’t stop my father’s side from trying to claim it. The Tooks have got their own holdings and they’ve no interest in mine, thank goodness, but not my cousin Otho. He’s the child of a younger Baggins son and he’s not got much to inherit.”

“Grasping bugger?” said Begonia, having returned to her seat.

“Doesn’t even begin to describe him,” Bilbo answered. “His wife’s no better. I think she might be _worse_ , in fact. Anyhow, you’ve done more than enough for our family, you certainly deserve Bag End, and I’ll benefit in that legally deeding it over to you takes it out of the running for a family feud. Have I explained myself well enough?”

To Hob, who still looked more than slightly shell-shocked, Thorin leaned across the table and whispered “The barrister talk can be a bit overwhelming, I know.” Bilbo was the only person he knew, apart from Balin and occasionally Nori, who could spit out a sentence like that without stopping to breathe.

“Well, if you’re sure,” Hob began slowly, “I wouldn’t mind keepin’ it from your relatives. Do you a bit of a favor, that would. Hmm…”

“Dad, are we moving?” Sunflower asked.

Hob nodded. “Just up the road, dear.”

“Oh,” she said. “All right, then.”

Incredibly, the announcement (and dual Hobbitish outburst) didn’t elicit the lasting reaction that Thorin thought it would, save for Hob and Begonia both getting up at intervals to pat Bilbo on the back and then sit back down. Necessary homeostasis of life with ten kids, he supposed - that was the one word he’d managed to integrate into his vocabulary during his visit to the Durin University biomedical science labs. The rest of lunch, in fact, went largely without incident. Even Old Roper had the good sense to stay under the table rather than leap on top of it again.

“Mummy, the _dog_ show,” Andwise suddenly piped up once the contents of everyone’s plates had finally dwindled without being replenished. “I wanna watch it again this Yule.”

“Ooh, the dog show,” said Hamfast, clapping his hands together. “Mr. Thorin, that’s a tradition we’ve got. There’s a dog show on telly every year, and we all sit in the living room t’watch it. Some dog-food group sponsors it.”

“A dog show,” Thorin repeated. “That sounds good.” How long had it been since he’d seen one? The last time he remembered watching a dog show, it was on one of those ghastly color televisions with an oversaturated picture, and all the judges had been wearing shoulder pads. Even the Elves. “Shall we, er, go to the living room, then?” He never quite knew how to broach the topic of general movement with other people’s families. It was part of the reason he kept turning down Dori’s invitations to supper, apart from the equally pressing reason that he didn’t want to hear about knitted doilies.

Hob abruptly stood up. “Sure!” he exclaimed. “All right, everyone take their own plate to the kitchen. Mam and I’ll do dishes later in the afternoon. Then it’s time to watch some dogs…oh!” He straightened, looking very pleased with himself. “Hot chocolate!”

Personally, Thorin thought that if he put anything else in his mouth, he would explode like Mr. Creosote in that thing from forty years ago, but he supposed he didn’t have to take any if he didn’t want to.

With the plates taken care of and all fourteen of them settled into the living room (mainly on the floor, in the children’s collective case), Begonia switched on the television and found the dog show. “It’s the Herding Group up next,” she said, even though that same announcement was scrolling across the bottom of the screen. “Thorin, have you got herding dogs over to Erebor?”

“Some,” Thorin said absently. “My experience with herding dogs is mostly limited to reindeer herders.”

“Reindeer herders?” Hamfast said.

“We raise a large number of reindeer north of the mountain,” Thorin explained. “Altogether, we have over a million head. Of course,” he said, seeing Hamfast’s expression of surprise, “we supply the Grey Mountains and Dale as well as Erebor. Milk, meat, leather, fur products –“

“Will you all shut up?” Hob interrupted. “The herdin’ group’s on!”

The herding dogs made a very handsome group overall, with shiny coats and enormous white teeth that Thorin was very surprised not to see make their way into the judges’ flesh when they checked the dogs’ mouths. “I like dat one,” said Poppy when a Border Collie came onscreen. “Pretty!”

“It is,” Bilbo agreed. “He has pretty black-and-white fur, doesn’t he? Do you hope he wins?”

“Yes,” said Poppy, and stuck her fingers in her mouth.

“One o’ my cousins had a Border Collie when I was a lass,” Begonia said. “Good dog. Skittish little thing, though. Couldn’t get nowhere near to pet him.”

“I liked the Northern Rhunic Sheepdog better,” Hamfast said. “Got a nice coat color to it. I wish we had room for a dog, Mam.”

Begonia shrugged. “Well, maybe when we move. Now remember, we’ve all got to thank Mr. Bilbo very well for that offer. All of us have got to write a –“

“ _Minto!_ ” Poppy shrieked, pointing towards the television. For a moment, Thorin thought that perhaps Minto was blocking her view, but no, it was the screen she was indicating. “A Minto!”

“Wait a minute, that’s a pit warg,” said Thorin, squinting. The banner at the bottom of the television read ‘Mixed Group,’ and the lively red-and-white dog prancing around the arena was large enough that…“Is that one of ours?”

“I think it might be,” said Bilbo, raising his eyebrows. “Wait.” He scrambled through the sea of children on the floor with a mumbled apology. “Thorin, that’s Precious! We visited her at the kennels! Oh, what a good girl she is.” He clasped his hands together and made a gooey face. “She’s so lovely. I didn’t know she was competing!”

“Neither did I,” Thorin said. “Just a minute. Begonia, do you mind if I use my phone?” Begonia shook her head, eyes still fixed on the show. “Thank you.”

He dialed the first few digits of Nori’s number, let the auto-fill do the rest, and was entirely unsurprised when Nori picked up on the first ring with a well-practiced _Nori’s Morgue and Diner, you kill ‘im, we grill ‘im._ “Do you know one of your pit wargs is competing in a dog show right now?” Thorin asked.

“Oh, Precious?” Nori said. “Yeah, I’m watchin’ right now! Take a look at her name. Ain’t that just inspired?”

The bottom of the screen proclaimed that the pit warg was Nori’s Precious Throat-Ripper of Dragon’s Head Wargery. “Throat-Ripper,” Thorin said. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Nope,” said Nori. “She’s such a good girl, but you gotta have a really meaty name for the shows.”

Thorin snorted. “That’s meaty, all right.”

“What’s meaty?” Bilbo asked.

“Never mind,” said Thorin, touching his shoulder; the proximity sharply reminded him that he was sitting in a living room full of someone else’s children, all of whom probably wanted to focus on the show. “Nori, I’ll phone you another time. Congratulations on Precious. Next time you show one of them, I’d like a notification ahead of time.”

“Sure, no problem,” Nori said, and hung up without even a word of pleasantry. Thorin sighed; that was Nori all over. He moved closer to Bilbo on the couch and settled in to watch.

Precious ended up winning – not best in show, but first in her category. “Minto winned!” Poppy cheered when the ribbons were presented and the screen filled with a close-up shot of Precious happily wagging her tail, a blue ribbon attached to her collar.

“That’s not Minto,” Thorin said, although he clapped vigorously nonetheless. Suddenly, a realization hit him. “Why isn’t Minto bothering any of us?” He pointed to Old Roper, whom Hamfast had had on his lap for the last fifteen minutes. “Especially him.”

“Who, Old Roper?” asked Bilbo. “Oh, Minto’s deathly afraid of him. It’s a bit of a funny story. Old Roper came over to sniff about in my garden in October, Minto went over to be friendly, and…” He shrugged. “The long and the short of it is that he had a face-hugger for about five minutes.”

“Oh.”

Bilbo nodded. “Did you see the scar on his nose?”

Thorin winced and darted another glance at Old Roper. He’d have to look at him in a whole new light from now on. “I will from now on. Poor Minto.”

An inquisitive _rorf?_ sounded from the doorway to the kitchen and Minto trotted in, his mouth full of a long white object barely recognizable as the meaty bone from earlier. In a surprisingly delicate manner for so huge a beast, he tiptoed over and between the various children before jumping up onto the couch, directly onto Thorin’s crotch. “ _Oogh_ ,” Thorin said. “Minto, that’s a bad lad.”

“He got a claw into my thigh,” Bilbo said, sounding utterly affronted. “Hob, Begonia, if he drools on your upholstery, I’m terribly sorry.”

“Oh, no worries,” Begonia said. “You know, ten children. All that.”

“I spilt grape squash on the sofa once,” Hamfast volunteered. In his lap, Old Roper narrowed his eyes at Minto and softly hissed. Thorin bit the insides of his cheeks so he wouldn’t burst out laughing when Minto whimpered in response. “Out of my mouth. Can’t be nothin’ you do that’s worse than that.”

“Oh, _Minto_ ,” Bilbo said, shaking his head. “Silly boy.” He patted Minto’s head where it rested in his lap (his back end, of course, being firmly planted on Thorin’s, foot in his crotch and all). “You’re going to be a pony for these children in a few minutes. Better enjoy it while you can.” Minto _boof_ ed, and Bilbo smiled. “Yes, exactly.”

Poppy and Hamfrey did indeed recruit Minto for a game of something they called ‘Stuck in the Misty Mountains’ a few minutes later, and Thorin gasped at the feeling of no longer being crushed. Perhaps he would be able to sire children after all – if he wanted to, anyway, and he was far too old for that sort of thing now. Even Dís’s child-in-progress would likely run him ragged if it proved anything like its older brothers. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked after he’d recovered himself. “Do you want me to help with the dishes?”

“No, no!” Begonia exclaimed. “You’re a guest, Thorin. Tell you what, why don’t you go out and have a smoke in the garden? Hamfast probably wants one already.”

“I don’t think I brought my pipe.”

“I’ve got a spare,” Bilbo said, “and some Longbottom Leaf. We’ll come back in time for the next meal, won’t we?”

Thorin groaned. “I think I may explode if I –“ _Fuck_. Would a roomful of Hobbits consider that offensive? “I’m sorry. We Dwarves can eat, but it’s not a patch on Hobbits. You’re all very impressive.”

That got him a round of appreciative murmurs, so he knew he’d hit the mark.

The smoke – which young Hamfast joined them for – was quite nice, but despite the appetite-inducing properties of Longbottom Leaf, Thorin found he couldn’t eat a thing for tea…or dinner, or even supper, which was a good six hours after the smorgasbord that was lunch. Nevertheless, despite his throbbing belly and pervasive feeling that he might pass out or explode any moment on the short walk back to Bag End, Thorin thought this was one of the more pleasant Yule-days he’d experienced in a while.

Then he threw up in the garden. Still, not bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Amrâgu-lukhûd_ is the Festival of Lights, AKA Hanukkah.
> 
> Yes, I know that in canon, Hob Gamgee had four children. Here, he and Begonia have ten. Chalk it up to a better economic situation and disposable diapers. :D


	3. 2 Yule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo gets a surprise the day after Yule, when he comes face-to-face with the Dwarvish idea of productivity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY this took so long.

Bilbo came up out of a hazy half-dream with Minto’s tongue in his ear. “Fuck off,” he grumbled. “Go find a doctor if you want – oh.” Right. He wasn’t in a strange dream-world of a medical clinic, and this was not, in fact, an overly handsy Man hitting him up for a treatment he couldn’t give. He needed to stop listening to Óin’s new medical podcast when he couldn’t sleep, because clearly it was making him outright hallucinate at night.

He rolled over and – wait. Thorin. No Thorin. The space next to him was cold, so if Thorin had gotten up, it wasn’t recent. “Where do you suppose he might be?” Bilbo asked Minto, who wagged his tail in response. “Yes, yes, I know. You’re a Simple Warg, and there you go with the Simple Warg head-tilt. Good boy.” He scratched Minto’s ears. “Are you hungry? Let’s get you some nice warg food out of the refrigerator!”

The warg food, which was Minto’s usual fare (although dry food sufficed on special occasions) came from the various offal that slaughterhouses gladly sold to him, combined with fresh vegetables and other things that wargs liked, some of which were entirely chemical but Nori insisted were necessary. Bilbo always ground up a week’s worth at a time in the backyard, although it was cold as blazes right now, and defrosted an estimate of how much Minto would need one day at a time. Luckily for him, Minto liked it straight out of the fridge. “Here you are,” Bilbo said, emptying a container into Minto’s ceramic bowl. It had lopsided bones painted on it, courtesy of the two hours he’d spent at the paint-your-own shop.

The microwave clock said it was half past seven and his stomach was growling, so Bilbo took down some hot cereal mix and made himself a bowl, along with tea and a cut-up apple. “Where do you suppose your ‘Adad is?” he said. Minto only _slorp_ ed in response. “Oh, yes, I forgot you’re a bit dim at times. Steady on. Good boy, Minto.” Minto’s tail thumped the leg of his chair. “Yes, yes.”

Suddenly, an awful sound that seemed a mixture of _clang_ and _scrape_ hit Bilbo right in the ears. “Shit!” He nearly dropped his teacup, salvaged it just in time, and put it down so he could cover his ears with his hands. “What on Arda is that?”

The sound came screeching back a few moments later. Minto whimpered; Bilbo reached down and petted him, which seemed to soothe him a bit. “Well,” he said as he scratched one of Minto’s ears and jumped in his chair at the sound, “I’m going to go outside and see to whom I’ve got to give the business. How’s that, sweet boy?”

With a motion that could only be described as a doggy shrug, Minto looked up mournfully and went back to his food. Well, that was enough of an answer for him.

Two minutes or so later, Bilbo had his clogs and coat on and his key in his pocket. He swung open the front door and was immediately hit with a bone-freezing blast of cold wind in his face. “Oh, that _tears_ it,” he muttered, and shuddered when the sound once again assaulted him. “Oi!” he shouted as loudly as he could. “Bugger off with that! Decent people are trying to eat their first breakfast!”

“Bilbo?” To Bilbo’s surprise, Thorin’s head popped into view over the nearest snowdrift. His nose was cherry-red, and with its size gave the impression that the middle of Thorin’s face had sprouted a large slice of tomato. “What are you shouting about? Are you all right?”

Bilbo gaped at him for a moment, then collected himself. “What the _fuck_ are you doing out here, Thorin?” Then he caught a glimpse of what Thorin was holding, and the pieces clicked into place. “Do you mean to tell me that that’s been making that horrible sound?”

Thorin frowned and waved the snow shovel. “I’ve been out cleaning off people’s walks. I couldn’t sleep, so…”

“So you decided to have a nice exercise session at Valar’s arse in the morning?” Bilbo interrupted. “How long have you been out here?”

“A little while.”

Bilbo bared his teeth at him. It always worked when Minto wanted someone to go away, after all. “Thorin.”

“Two hours,” Thorin said reluctantly, shrugging, “maybe three. The entire street is done.”

“Wait, wait,” Bilbo said. “You shoveled the _street?_ ”

Thorin cocked his head at him in a way eerily reminiscent of Minto. “What? No, no. I did everyone’s walkways, and the sidewalk. It’s not too much effort, truly.”

“Thorin.” Bilbo folded his arms. “It is –” He looked at the thermometer on the side of the house. “It’s ten below. _Get in here._ ”

“Must I?”

“You said that the street is done,” Bilbo said, and startled a bit at the whimper behind him. “See? Even Minto thinks it’s too cold to run outside. Come on, get in and I’ll make you some hot cereal.”

Thorin sighed and came out from behind the snowdrift. “That does sound good,” he said. He had on his boots, as usual, along with a pair of trousers, a short-sleeved shirt, and nothing else.

Bilbo shook his head. _Dwarves_. “Where’s your coat?”

“Coat? Oh! Hold on, I left it on Number Four’s mailbox.” Thorin darted out of sight for a minute or two and came back, breathing hard, with his coat in hand. He’d clearly run up the length of the street, the lovable idiot. “Sorry. I got hot in the middle of shoveling.”

“You’re just lucky no one looked out their window and took a goggle at the hot Dwarf shoveling their walk,” Bilbo told him, putting an arm around Thorin’s back when he made it to the door. “For the love of all things green, you’re freezing!” He slammed the door behind them, stomped the snow off his clogs, and set to rubbing Thorin’s hands; they felt like solid ice with a skin covering.

“Technically, you can’t know that no one was looking out their window,” Thorin said. The flush on his nose was spreading to cover his cheeks and forehead, and his teeth began to chatter mid-sentence. “Why am I only cold now?”

Bilbo squeezed his hands as best he could, which wasn’t easy given their size. Even among Dwarves, Thorin had monstrous hands, perhaps even bigger than Minto’s paws would be when he was full-grown. _All right_ , he admitted to himself, _that’s probably an exaggeration_. “Your body’s only just realizing how bloody stupid you were, out there for two hours,” he said. “We’ve got people who come by and shovel the walks, you know! And if they didn’t come, everyone would’ve put their eldest children out there and made _them_ do the shoveling. Come to think of it, where did you find my shovel? I haven’t used it in ages.” The last time he remembered using it was just after Mum died, although he had to have shoveled after that. Maybe it was only his last clear memory of it.

“You do know you have a map of Bag End on your parlor wall, yes?” Thorin said. He snatched his hands back, blew on them, and rubbed them together hard with a _shush_ of dry skin that made Bilbo wince.

“Yes,” Bilbo said. “Don’t rub your hands together like that. I’ve got lotion you can use. As for the map, of course I remember where it is. I drew that copy.”

“Oh. Did you? I didn’t know that cartography was among your many talents.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow, patting Thorin’s bum because he could. “You have no idea how many talents I have. So where did you find the shovel?” Belatedly, he realized that perhaps berating Thorin in the hall wasn’t the best idea when he’d been out sweating in the bitter cold, so he took Thorin’s hand and led him forcibly to the kitchen before finishing his thought. “Sit down. Tea.”

“Monosyllables,” Thorin quipped. “Me Dwarf King, you Hob. Bit. Whatever. I can’t make a one-syllable nickname out of ‘Hobbit’.” Of course, the words came out in choppy syllables anyway, since his dear, stupid Dwarf’s teeth were still chattering.

“Let’s leave our earliest evolved forms in the past,” Bilbo said. “And don’t mock Tarzan. That was the Saturday-morning cartoon of choice when I was a lad.” He started up the electric kettle again and took down the spice cider tea mix, which he knew from emails back and forth was Thorin’s favorite of the teas he owned. “Do you want to hug Minto? He’ll warm you up.”

“I think so.” Thorin cleared his throat and snapped his fingers, which Bilbo caught the tail end of as he sat down to wait for the kettle. “Come here, Minto!”

Obedient to Thorin as ever (and didn’t _that_ still grate on him, Bilbo thought sourly), Minto came clattering into the kitchen and put his head on Thorin’s lap. “That’s a good boy,” Bilbo said. “I fed him earlier, so that’s finished. He won’t need another full meal until luncheon. Although if he wants to graze, he can.”

“I thought herbivores were the ones that grazed,” Thorin said as Minto put his head on his thigh. A wet spot immediately spread out from where his lips touched Thorin’s jeans. “Someone is a drooly boy.”

“Minto,” said Bilbo, “get over here, please. You don’t want to ruin your ‘Adad’s lovely trousers.”

“He’s not hurting anyone,” Thorin protested. “He’s keeping me warm. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Bilbo shook his head. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, but scratched Minto’s head anyway. “Let ‘Adad eat, my lad. He needs a hot bath as soon as his extremities warm up.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Thorin admitted. “I’m surprised you know the correct warming process. It doesn’t usually get as cold here as it does in the mountains.”

“How would you – oh.” Of course Thorin had been here before, for trade agreements. He’d nce mentioned being acquainted with the Old Took, even. Sometimes, Bilbo reflected, it was hard to remember how old Thorin was. For all that he was what Nori called ‘terminally uncool,’ he looked Bilbo’s age.

Thorin smiled. “Yes, exactly,” he said, seemingly having divined at least some of Bilbo’s thoughts. “I’ve had the dubious fortune of living in many places all over the West.” He cleared his throat and picked up Bilbo’s discarded spoon from earlier. “I won’t go into all that now. Minto doesn’t need to know the sob story.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially and winked. “We should spare the children all that, shouldn’t we?”

It was hardly a sob story, but Bilbo let that go. “Finish your food and tea,” he said. “They’re good for you.”

“What food?”

Fucking hell. Bilbo hit himself in the forehead with the palm of his hand just hard enough to sting. “Hot cereal, of course,” he said. “I made some for myself and I’d swear I told you I…never mind.” He rolled his eyes. Maybe he really was getting old. “Well, it’s a dehydrated mix. The kettle water will do just fine.” He took down another packet from the cupboard just as the kettle started pouring out steam. A moment later, and he poured water into both the tea mug and the cereal bowl.

“That looks good,” Thorin said when he brought both over.

Bilbo smiled. “Which one? Don’t answer that – the other one might get jealous.”

Thorin lifted the cup and took a careful slurp, his laugh lines creasing sharply around his eyes. “You’re very silly this morning,” he said. “Almost at the level of your more eccentric relatives. You know, the ones you like to tell me about.”

Bilbo pursed his lips and snorted hard. “You’ll be on very thin ice soon if you bring up my ‘more eccentric relatives’ again,” he said, making finger quotes where necessary. “You’re not the one with a bastard half-many-times-removed cousin whom you’ve stupidly made your spymaster.”

“I know who you are, but what am I?”

Bilbo goggled at him. “I’m sorry, _what?_ ”

Thorin boomed out a sudden laugh and took another slurp of tea, followed by one of cereal. “Sorry,” he said. “I think it’s a combination of the cold and dealing with Nori. I have a few pre-programmed insults on speed-dial.”

“Your nephews would flay you alive for misusing technology speak like th – _Minto!_ ” Bilbo snapped his fingers, and Minto’s nose disappeared from the edge of the table with a whimper from its owner. “Don’t eat hot cereal! You’ve got your own food.” He turned to Thorin. “First Old Roper and now Minto? You’re a softy for letting pets eat your food.”

“That’s because they’re so adorable.” Thorin scratched the ridge of hair that began at the back of Minto’s neck and went all the way down to his tail. Bilbo had scratched it himself many a time. According to Nori, it had something to do with how heavy the bones of pit wargs’ spines were. Something of a marker, but not a sign of spinal deformity, unlike that one Mannish breed. “But your dad is right, Minto. You ought to let ‘Adad eat or he’ll waste away.”

“Minto! Treat!” Bilbo said. The ruse worked, thankfully, and Thorin was able to eat (and drink) the rest of his first breakfast in peace. He would, Bilbo resolved, have a proper second breakfast after his bath.

Once Thorin was done, and Minto had finished gnawing his way through two GreenBones, Bilbo took Thorin’s dishes away and set them in the sink. “Bath,” he said. “Now. How are your fingers and toes?”

Thorin flexed the fingers of one hand. “Tingling,” he said, “but better than they were. I…” He looked up at Bilbo from under his eyelashes, the expression of a small child who desired something very, very much indeed. “Could I have a bubble bath?”

“Thorin!” Bilbo said through a laugh. “Of course! I thought you were about to ask for some sex thing.” That would have been horrifically awkward with Thorin’s age-regressing expression. “I’ve got loads of bubble bars and bubble bath in the loo cupboard. Take as long as you want. I’ll even wash your back, if that appeals to you.”

“It might.” Thorin stood up, Minto at his heels with his tongue out. “Lead on.”

Bilbo relished the look on Thorin’s face when he threw open the doors of his bathing-products cupboard and explained what sorts of things were on the different shelves. “You know I’ve got the money for this,” he said. “It’s not as though I’m beggaring myself for a bath.”

“Bilbo, have you bought out the contents of every Lush in the Shire?”

“I wish I could,” Bilbo said, folding his arms. “The ‘Love Your Hobbit’ foot care gift set is always fucking sold out as soon as any of them get into the shops. I’ve never been able to use one and I’ve heard they’re wonderful.”

“Love Your Hobbit,” Thorin echoed under his breath. “I’ll have to get you a set, then. There must be at least one in the Erebor Lush. In the meantime…” His hand hovered over the contents of the bubble bar shelf. “All right, this one. I like blue things.”

Bilbo smiled. “Good choice. Only half of that one, though, or you’ll overflow the tub.” He’d learned that the hard way. Only recently, in fact; Minto had eagerly run over to eat the soap running over the floor, and he’d had tummy problems, to put it delicately, all the next day.

Thorin certainly took his sweet time in getting his clothing off. Bilbo sat on the edge of the tub and happily ogled him. It had been quite a long time since he’d had a partner do a striptease for him, and he’d never seen the likes of Thorin’s body emerge from one. Thorin’s legs were relatively short for his frame, as a Dwarf’s tended to be, but they were hard and thick and muscular. What lay between them made Bilbo’s face go hot, even after all their time together. “You’re trying to turn me on,” he said, his voice sudden and loud in the small room.

Thorin executed a perfect half-turn, twisting at the waist to make any clothing model envious, and slid off his shirt. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing,” he said, and arched his neck. Bless him, it looked like a turkey trying to peck. He really _was_ inexperienced. “Do you want to comment on how hairy my back is?”

“Hush, you. That was _once_.”

“You asked me if it was bristly,” Thorin said, chuckling. “Well, I think you know what it feels like now.” The muscles of his back and shoulders shifted under the skin as he carefully hung his clothing on the towel rack, then shook his hair away from his face. “Have you got a hair tie?”

“Ribbon,” said Bilbo. “I keep it for my clothes, not my hair,” he said off the look on Thorin’s face. “You Dwarves don’t know a thing about Shire fashion. Just a minute and I’ll get you some.” He darted out to the bedroom and, after a bit of rummaging, pulled out a length of his favorite green velvet ribbon from his bedside table to bring back. “How’s this?”

Thorin reached out a hand. “Perfect, thank you.” He tied back his hair in a tail, which he then looped under itself and tied again. “It’s uncomfortable when it drips down your back.”

Bilbo stole another look at Thorin when he bent down to start running the bath, this time at his bum. He needed to fatten that bum up. Thorin had gone long enough being as thin as he was. Nevertheless, it was still round enough to be very appealing indeed, just like the rest of him.

Finally, the bath was run and Thorin was settled in it, buried under large amounts of bubbles. “You know,” he said through the white mass, “an entire one of those bubble bars would be necessary for the royal bath in Erebor. Just take out the insert and you can fit several people in there.”

“The bath?” Bilbo echoed. “The one I never got to try.”

“You had plenty of opportunity,” Thorin pointed out.

He had a point. Bilbo crossed his arms. “Well, I was too nervous to ask,” he said. “I thought I’d be breaking some sort of tradition. No Hobbits in the royal bath, that sort of thing.”

Thorin laughed, the sound somewhat lost in the bubbles. “Bilbo, I’ve let _Óin_ use that bath,” he said. “All you have to do is ask.”

“Now I think that’s going rather too far,” said Bilbo. “Did he leave anything unsavory in there?”

“What do you mean by unsavory?”

Bilbo shrugged. “I don’t know. Science experiments?”

“No, all he left in there was hair.” Thorin tipped his head back. “Speaking of which,” he said when he resurfaced, “I’ve not been able to ask you if you want to wash my hair. Are you ready to take that step?”

 _Step?_ “Is that something…intimate?” Bilbo asked hesitantly. “For Dwarves?”

“It is,” Thorin said after a few moments’ pause. “We believe that when the Seven Fathers were awoken – the seven founders of the clans, in what’s now Mount Gundabad,” he elaborated, having clearly sensed that Bilbo had no bloody idea what he was talking about. “When Mahal awoke them, he created each with bountiful hair and beard. The Fathers then styled themselves to show their clan affiliations. It’s been a custom since then that touching someone else’s hair and beard is highly intimate, simply because of what it signifies.”

“Oh.” Bilbo shifted on the edge of the tub. “I can’t believe I haven’t asked you about that before. The hairstyles I’ve seen can be so elaborate.”

“It’s all right,” Thorin said. “You never had any reason to ask.”

“Well, I know, but it’s just something that’s so prevalent in Dwarves. Do you know what I mean?” Bilbo asked. “I feel like I’ve not done my due diligence with such a visible detail. I’ve seen so many Dwarves and their hairstyles, even just among your family and friends. Er, hair and beard styles, I suppose.”

Thorin nodded. “There’s a long and storied history with regards to Dwarvish hair and beards, if I may be dramatic about it,” he said. “Explaining it to you before you were acquainted enough with our customs would have been awkward on all sides. Even I don’t know the full extent of how people style nowadays.”

Something in Bilbo’s belly unclenched. “So I won’t be a terrible spouse for you, not having known about it?”

Thorin eyed him sidelong. The bubbles gave him, with that expression, a rather funny look of Eru come from Valinor to chastise a mere mortal. Well, if that wasn’t blasphemous, anyway. Bilbo did hope he wouldn’t have to look for another metaphor if Eru ever somehow caught wind of his thoughts. “Of course not.”

“Oh, good.” Bilbo trailed his hand in the water and crushed a handful of bubbles – or tried to, anyway. They spilled out between his fingers, the slippery little buggers. “You said that hair washing is intimate,” he said. “Did you mean it’s only between partners, or does that include family?”

“Family and partners,” Thorin said, “although the definition of ‘family’ is at the individual’s discretion to some extent. I’d happily allow any member of our Quest to touch my hair, even those I’m not related to. That would include your parents if they were still alive.”

“Really?” said Bilbo. “I’m…strangely honored.” Fuck it all, now he wished more than ever that Mum and Dad were alive. They would be so happy to see him with someone who made _him_ happy that they wouldn’t be able to contain themselves. Dad might well jump around in joy and say, in a tone far too dry and prim for the occasion, that he was about to explode with emotion. As for Mum, there would be hugs upon hugs. His chest twinged. “Are you still up for hair-washing now?”

Thorin rose from his bubble pile and pulled his hair out of its tail. “Yes, of course. I think the shampoo I used yesterday did it some good. It’s usually frizzier than this after I’ve been outdoors in the cold. Just a moment.” He dunked his head under, then brought it back up, his hair now covered in bubbles. “I hope these sulfates don’t damage it.”

Bilbo giggled. “What?” he said at Thorin’s look. “You’re a king, and you’re talking about frizz and sulfates and all that tosh. Oughtn’t you be the wash-and-go sort?”

Thorin turned his back, which Bilbo took as his cue to grab one of his many shampoos. “Wash-and-go is how a king gets frizz, Bilbo,” Thorin said. “I didn’t bring gel with me only because Hobbit hair is far curlier than mine and I doubt any of you will care what I look like.”

“Well, apart from the fact that everyone thinks you’re hot,” Bilbo said, working shampoo into Thorin’s roots. “How’s that? Do I need to use more pressure? Or less?”

“Mmm,” Thorin said, the noise trailing off into something that might have been a purr. “That’s fine. What was that about people thinking I’m…er…”

“Hot, yes,” Bilbo told him cheerfully. “Hob and Begonia were both staring at you yesterday. Half the airport was probably staring at you. I didn’t see them, but I’m not the only one in the Shire with an imagination.” He slapped as much bubble bath off Thorin’s dangling hair as he could and massaged his scalp a bit more. It might have been his imagination, but he thought Thorin’s neck might be going pink, just a bit.

Suddenly, Thorin pulled away and stretched; Bilbo winced at the loud crack that came from his back. “I would be very grateful if you’d do me a favor and not announce every time someone thinks I’m attractive,” he said. Bilbo would have felt more chastened if Thorin hadn’t then turned around and flashed him a small smile. “Look, among Dwarves, the way I look is considered very strange.”

“With those eyes?” said Bilbo, incredulous. There was no way.

“Dwarves, much like Hobbits, tend to value a fat figure,” Thorin said, his voice dry. “I’m too thin, and I’m a bit angular for people’s tastes. I could compensate with extra braiding and other grooming, but…” He shrugged. “I am what I am. To tell you the truth, during the Wandering Times, people were…creepy about it, if that’s the right word. Mannish, especially.”

“I understand,” said Bilbo, even though he knew damn well he didn’t. Although he’d heard some stories about what went on during the Wandering Times from various people in Thorin’s former Company, Thorin himself tended to be closed-lipped about what people had done to him – or wanted to do. This looked like it was shaping up to be the latter.

Thorin turned around, splashing as he went, and put a wet hand on Bilbo’s wrist. “I think my hair is clean enough,” he said. “And you don’t need to hear about all the _shite_ we went through. It’s been the better part of a century since most of it happened.” He pressed a kiss against the back of Bilbo’s hand. “Shall I finish bathing?”

“Yes, quite,” said Bilbo as cheerfully as he could. Dad would probably get on his case for an incorrect sentence if he were still alive – his father could blow things up with the best of them, but improper grammar was _preposterous_ in his eyes. The thought brought a smile back to his face. “I’ll leave you alone, I think. It’s…” He looked at the wall clock. “Nine-ish. What do you want to do after you finish bathing?”

“Unpack,” Thorin said at once. “I’ve got a surprise for you in my suitcase. Just glad you haven’t gone through it yet.”

“Because I respect your privacy.” Bilbo patted him on the head, and Thorin threw him a soft mock-growl. “All right, all right, you giant bear.” He turned to leave.

“I met one of those on our Quest,” Thorin called after him. Bilbo smirked at nothing. Honestly, the stories he could tell.

He pottered around the kitchen for a bit, putting away dishes and pulling a steak out of the freezer. That would make a fine dinner as long as he could get it defrosted before five or so. Eight hours – that was plenty of time. With that resolved, he whipped up a nice smoky marinade and occasionally pushed Minto out of the way with his foot. “Oi!” he snapped after the fifth such attempt to get at his food. “Knock it off! If you weren’t so obviously a warg, I’d call you Nori’s spawn with complete confidence.”

“You’d be wrong,” Thorin said as he padded in, wet feet slapping against the floor. He wore Bilbo’s terry-cloth bathrobe, which was much tighter on him, despite Bilbo’s large belly. In addition, his hair was up in what looked like a shirt. “What?” he demanded as Bilbo laughed.

“You look like everyone’s live-in father-in-law,” Bilbo said through another chortle. “Now all you need to do is sit on a chair with no pants and your legs open. That’d have your knackers flapping everywhere and the imitation would be perfect.”

Thorin pulled on the edges of the robe and gave a very good imitation of an offended sniff. “If you don’t stop impugning my taste, then I will _move out_ and you won’t have anyone to pay for the wedding. See how much you like my daughter then.” Bilbo collapsed into giggles again, and Thorin grinned, raising his voice. “Respect my knackers! They produced her.”

“You’re being a horse’s arse!”

“Sometimes you just can’t be kingly in private.” Thorin came over and wrapped his arms around Bilbo from behind. “I suspect you’re very glad you’re not marrying someone’s _daughter_.”

“Isn’t that the point of being gay?” Bilbo asked, squeezing Thorin’s overlapping hands in his own. Fucking hell, not even Thorin’s own nephews were that impressive, although he supposed they might still have time to grow. They were a bit like puppies in that sense. “I wouldn’t be me if I’d decided to marry…I don’t know, the Gamgees’ eldest lass. No, wait, I’m far too old for her.”

Thorin kissed his shoulder-neck, that join between parts where he was most sensitive. Bilbo shivered. “I’m more than thrice your age,” he pointed out. “Does that make me your Grand-‘Adad of sorts?”

“ _Yeugh_ ,” Bilbo replied. The shiver turned into a shudder. “Don’t make me think of your grandfather. Or the Old Took. Wait, you knew him, didn’t you?”

Thorin nodded against him. “Not very well, but yes. I was the one who came down and did the trade negotiations with him – you know, for our food.” He paused. “He was an…interesting person, I’d say.”

“Well, that’s being rather generous,” Bilbo said, looked down at the utensils in his hands, and went back to stirring the finishing touches into his marinade. “A batty codger is more like it. Think Dumbledore without the massive manipulative streak. One of my first memories is him bouncing me on his knee and telling me all about General Mork the Orc, which of course he wasn’t around for! He was all of ten when that skirmish happened, and it was all the way down the south part of the Misty Mountains to boot.”

“He sounds like a character of the best sort,” Thorin replied. Bilbo felt him crane his neck. “What are you making? It smells good.”

“Thank you. It’s a marinade for tonight’s steak, which I’ve only just put in the refrigerator,” Bilbo told him. “I’ll put it in this to soak as soon as I’m finished. Now what was it you were telling me when you came in?”

Thorin let go of him and leaned against the counter with his arms crossed, his brow furrowing. “What I was saying…hm…” He stroked his undone beard, which hung halfway down his neck. “Right.” He snapped his fingers. “You’d be wrong about Minto being a Nori product. Biologically, anyway. He’s been effectively Dwalin-sexual for fifty years.”

“Dwalin-sexual,” Bilbo repeated with a snort.

“What? It’s true.” Thorin grinned at him and scratched Minto’s ears. “This little lad has such velvety ears, don’t you? Good Minto.”

“Oh, he _does_ ,” Bilbo agreed. “They’re the softest part of him. Anyhow…” Something suddenly occurred to him. “What was this about having a surprise for me in your suitcase? It’s not sex toys, is it?”

Thorin chuckled. “No, I know you’ve got enough of those.” He gave Bilbo an exaggerated wink that was one of the most ‘uncool older adult’ things Bilbo had ever seen. That included himself. “It’s something to do with food.”

Bilbo perked up right away. “Ooh, food?”

“Yes. Just a second.” Thorin disappeared, and a few moments later, Bilbo heard his voice from just outside the room. “Close your eyes and put out your hands.”

Bilbo did, but made sure to roll them first. “Thorin of the Line of Durin, King Under the Bloody Mountain,” he said, “you’d better not be about to put something utterly disgusting in my hands.”

“I do that all the time anyway, but whatever makes you happy.” Thorin chortled, a very un-kingly sound that made Bilbo feel warm inside. Then, two smooth objects that Bilbo immediately recognized as glass jars were in his hands. _Food_ , he remembered, and his heart sped up. “All right, you can open them now.”

Bilbo obeyed, and squinted at the bright labels. “Bombur’s Super-Duper Chunky Tomato Sauce,” he said. The label had a neon-yellow background and what was quite frankly a horrifying photo of Bombur Boburul giving a thumbs-up. “Wait, is the sauce super-duper _and_ chunky, or is it meant to be super-duper chunky?” And then the penny dropped. “Thorin, these are from the garden tomatoes!”

Thorin blinked. “Why would they be anything else?”

The tomatoes would have gone flying if Bilbo hadn’t had the foresight to put them down on the counter first, but years of being a Hobbit let him carefully set down his booty and immediately follow that with a flying-leap-and-grapple that audibly knocked the breath out of Thorin. “ _Garden tomato sauce!_ ” he shouted, perhaps a bit too loudly if the wince was anything to go by, into Thorin’s ear. “Have you any idea of all the recipes I can start with this?”

“No.” Thorin’s back shuddered with laughter under Bilbo’s hands. “I can perhaps guess.”

“Well!” Bilbo let go of him, unable to keep a ridiculous grin off his face. “We shan’t be going anywhere today. I’m going to cook and cook until my arms fall off.” Eyeing Thorin’s wet hair, he added, “Given what you spent your morning doing for my neighbors, I shouldn’t think you’ll have any objection to staying in and doing what I want.”

Thorin only smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Thorin does the Curly Girl method. :D 
> 
> GreenBones are the Middle Earth equivalent of Greenies. 
> 
> Bilbo's account of his grandfather comes straight from my great-grandfather, who used to bounce my father on his knee and tell him about General Custer. (This was a guy born in the Pale of Settlement, and possibly not born yet when that happened.) General Mork may or may not have had a friend named Mindy.


End file.
